


The Moon Hangs Above Like a Valium Pill

by speakpirate



Category: Pretty Little Liars
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Jump Years, McHastings - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 14:39:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14834180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speakpirate/pseuds/speakpirate
Summary: An unexpected reconnection with Paige forces Spencer to reckon with her emotions.Spencer stands there, staring at the back of Paige’s calves for maybe ten seconds before she swallows hard and finally speaks. “McCullers.”Paige props herself up on her elbows and twists around to look at her.  “Spencer,” she replies. She’s still not smiling, exactly.  But one side of her mouth quirks up just a little.It occurs to Spencer that she hasn’t planned out a second thing to say.





	The Moon Hangs Above Like a Valium Pill

**Author's Note:**

> _Happy Pride Month! My goal for June is to transform the incomplete fics that have been hanging around in my docs into finished femslash. Because done is better than perfect. And I love Paige and Spencer together._
> 
> —————————————————

It’s not that Spencer Hastings doesn’t have friends at Georgetown. She walks across campus from International Law to her Shakespearean Sexuality seminar with a couple of Econ majors who happen to be heading in the same direction. She and her lab partner meet up for a Genetics study group once a week, taking over a small room on the third floor of the library, books and scribbled notes spread all over a table. She goes to parties, sometimes. Smiles in a vague way while sipping beer from a plastic cup. The kind of camaraderie that would photograph well for a college brochure.

When she runs these days, it’s mostly on the indoor track. It’s getting colder outside, and running in the dark can lead to awkward moments, like the time she heard footsteps closing behind her and almost broke the nose of a lacrosse player who was trying to pass her on the right. But she’s fine. Everything’s fine. That’s what she tells her parents. What she says in breezy emails to the girls, the ones she sends just often enough so that Hanna won’t come storming up here to check on her, but not so often that Aria might ask her to Skype if she’s not busy sometime. She’s busy. She’s fine. 

She sometimes calls Emily’s voicemail. Not Emily, really, since the only reason Spencer calls is that she knows Emily never picks up anymore. She hangs up after the greeting. Never leaves a message.

One day she’s brushing her hair in the bathroom mirror and notices she’s starting to look more and more like Melissa. She leans in, puts a hand against her cheek, tries to weigh whether it’s a similarity of bone structure or expression. It might be something in the eyes. She considers, for the first time, whether Melissa might be lonely.

She thinks about it all day. Thinks about it while she’s running the track that night. Her feet hit the rubber in rhythmic precision. She’s fine. She’s _safe_. She’s fine.

It’s Friday night, and she’s sitting in the bleachers watching a swim meet. It feels familiar. All those hours she spent cheering for Emily back in the day. She feels a pang when she remembers they way Emily would smile, shy but proud, every time she broke a pool record. Or a school record. Or a state record, later on. Spencer doesn’t care about swimming, but she’s careful to be out of the room on weekend nights often enough to give her roommate the right impression. Next year she’ll move off campus, and won’t have to keep up the charade.

She watches the swimmers warming up in the practice pool. Her eye follows a woman in a red and black suit. She’s fast, but her stroke is a little choppy. Not a natural. Not like Emily. Then Spencer sees the swim cap, the red letter S with a pine tree in relief. She borrows a program from a woman in front of her. Stanford. Competing in Lane 7 for the 100m fly, third position for the 800m relay, and Lane 4 for the 200m free: Paige McCullers. 

Spencer watches as Paige takes second in her first event, three tenths of a second behind a girl who won a gold medal at the last Olympics. But her team wins the relay by a commanding six seconds, and Paige swims her leg faster than a girl who Spencer saw on a Wheaties box two summers ago. She’s fourth in her last event, she looks tired on the back stretch. Spencer can see her muscles working, her almost visible will to move through the water just a little bit faster. She must still be staring a little as Paige gets out of the pool and grabs a towel. Spencer isn’t thinking anything as she watches Paige pull off her swim cap and head over to the hot tubs, at least not until the intensity of her gaze makes Paige turn, scan the crowd. Their eyes lock, and Spencer feels a frisson of electricity shoot down her spine. Paige doesn’t smile. She nods. Spencer nods back. 

She cancels her study group to come back the next day.

Paige is in two events, and wins the second one, taking first place in the 100m backstroke. Spencer waits until the swimmers are done, until there’s nothing left on the program but the diving finals later that night. Then she uses her student ID, a commanding look, and a little light lockpicking to make her way down to the pool area. Where Paige is not hanging out on the team bench, where she is actually laying face down on a table being massaged by one of the trainers.

Spencer stands there, staring at the back of Paige’s calves for maybe ten seconds before she swallows hard and finally speaks. “McCullers.”

Paige props herself up on her elbows and twists around to look at her. “Spencer,” she replies. She’s still not smiling, exactly. But one side of her mouth quirks up just a little. Spencer feels it again, a jolt that travels through her whole body. 

It occurs to Spencer that she hasn’t planned out a second thing to say. “Do you want to get dinner?” 

Paige studies her for a long moment, waits several beats before answering. “Okay.”

Spencer waits for Paige outside the locker room. She thinks about where they should go for dinner. Georgetown is near Embassy Row, so there are lots of funky ethnic restaurants nearby. She has no idea what Paige likes. How strange, to know what someone looks like wide eyed with terror in the aftermath of a kidnapping, but to have no idea whether or not they enjoy Indian food. 

When Paige finally emerges, she’s dressed in jeans and a leather jacket. Her hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail. Spencer doesn’t realize that she’s holding her breath until she opens her mouth to suggest an Italian place on 31st. It’s about 15 minutes away, if Paige doesn’t mind walking.

Paige has her hands in her pockets as she rocks slightly on her heels. “I don’t mind,” she says.

It’s awkward at first. “You’re faster than you used to be,” Spencer says.

“Not fast enough,” Paige responds. “I blew out my knee last year. Before that, I had a shot at the National Team.”

“I bet it was a good shot.”

“Yeah,” Paige sighs. “It was.”

The air has the bite of early winter. It feels even colder after the warmth of the overheated aquatics center. They walk close together, Spencer wrapped in her long coat, smelling the faint hint of chlorine when the wind whips up around them. 

“Did you go out for Field Hockey?” Paige asks.

“I’m not much for team sports these days.”

“Were you ever?”

It takes Spencer a second to identify the sound that’s rising in her throat as a laugh.

“I like them. I just like them better when I’m in charge.”

“You like everything better when you’re in charge.”

Spencer smiles. A real smile. It feels safe enough. It’s dark. No one can see.

“I run,” she says.

Paige nods. “I did my first Ironman a few months ago. My time on the swim was great, the cycling was fine, but the run at the end almost killed me. I felt like my calves were going to explode.”

Spencer finds herself imagining Paige’s calves, somewhat vividly. She clears her throat.

“How long did it take you to finish?”

“Eleven hours, forty seven minutes.”

“Not bad for your first time.”

“Still. Room for improvement.”

“There always is,” Spencer agrees.

She holds the door open when they get to the restaurant, a gesture that feels oddly chivalrous.

Paige seems a little amused, and responds by pulling Spencer’s chair out for her when they’re seated

“Thank you,” Spencer says. There’s a faint hint of color high on her cheekbones. Probably from the wind.

“My pleasure,” Paige grins, picking up a menu. 

Spence reaches for her glass of ice water.

“How do you like California?”

“Well, it has palm trees, great weather, and no one has tried to kill me. What’s not to like?”

“Do you ever go back?” She doesn’t mention Rosewood. Not out loud. 

Paige’s expression darkens. “No.”

She looks directly at Spencer, and Spencer feels herself sitting up a little straighter. 

“How are you and Toby?”

Spencer pours herself a glass of wine, drinking half of it in one long gulp before answering.

“Over.”

Paige runs a finger along the edge of the table cloth. 

The waiter comes, and they shift back to less personal topics. Bridget Wu’s audition for American Idol. Lucas Gottesman’s girlfriend, a plus-size supermodel who bears a striking resemblance to Hanna. Noel Kahn being cut off by his family after he was arrested for trying to fix a few college basketball games.

Their plates have been cleared away by the time Paige leans forward, an elbow casually resting on the table.

“How are you, really?”

“Fine,” Spencer says, automatically. 

“That’s good,” Paige says. “I bet a lot of people believe you.”

Spencer bristles. “It’s the truth.”

Paige shakes her head. “Do you know how many times Emily told me she was fine? Because she didn’t want me to worry or put me in danger? It was never fine. Not one time.”

Spencer stands up so suddenly she almost upsets the table. A stray fork clatters to the floor, the noise feels unbearably loud, clanging like a siren in Spencer’s ears. She throws cash on the table and staggers towards the door.

“Spencer!”

She makes it outside, barely. Paige catches up to her as she’s dry heaving next to a dumpster. She doesn’t say anything, just puts a hand on Spencer’s back and waits with her as she fights to get herself back under control. She gulps a few breaths of the cold night air and leans back against the brick wall of the alley.

“I’m sorry,” Paige says, finally. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t,” Spencer says. “Being stalked and kidnapped and locked in a torture bunker upset me.” She shivers at the memory.

Paige pulls off her coat and moves to drape it over Spencer’s shoulders. She fumbles a little, her fingers grazing the side of Spencer’s neck.

Spencer leans forward and kisses her. Paige’s mouth falls open in surprise and Spencer presses harder, sliding her tongue inside. 

Paige takes a quick step backwards. Her voice sounds lower than usual. “This isn’t a good idea.”

“I don’t care,” Spencer insists. She stands there with sad eyes and wild hair, her lipstick slightly smeared. “Please,” she implores quietly, holding Paige’s gaze. “I just want to feel something else.”

Paige bites her lip. She gets it. Of course she does.

She nods once, then presses Spencer against the wall. 

The sex is a heated frenzy of desire and adrenaline. Spencer can hear the traffic whooshing by as Paige’s lips work their way down her neck, as her hand works its way under Spencer’s shirt. Spencer thrusts against Paige’s knee, gasping at how intensely present Paige is, how she demands the same in return, scraping her teeth roughly against Spencer’s skin, tugging lightly on her hair whenever she senses her drifting out of the moment. Which isn’t a problem, really, as Spencer’s orgasm hits almost as soon as Paige pushes her underwear aside, convulsing against the swipe of her fingers, the circular motion of her thumb.

And then she goes limp, relying on the pressure of Paige’s body to hold her up.

She wipes the back of her hand across her eyes.

“Are you crying?” Paige asks, her voice panting a little but full of concern.

“No,” Spencer lies, even as she’s wiping away a small flood of tears. 

She takes a deep shaky breath. “Thank you.”

It’s hard to tell in the dim glow of the street lights, but Paige might be blushing. Spencer grabs a fistful of Paige’s shirt and kisses her thoroughly. It’s a different kind of kiss this time. Deeper. Heavy with emotion.

“You don’t have to -” Paige says, as Spencer reaches down to unfasten her belt.

“I want to,” Spencer replies. “Is that okay?”

_”Yes,”_ Paige hisses, and that’s the last coherent piece of conversation that passes between them until they’re pulling apart and vainly trying to straighten their clothes. Spencer casts an appraising eye over their dishabille. Her shirt is missing a couple of buttons. Faint red marks from her nails are visible through a tear in Paige’s collar.

They stand with Spencer’s arm hooked through the crook of Paige’s elbow as their Uber pulls up.

Spencer opens the car door, then hesitates. “Actually, I think I’m going to walk.”

“Are you sure?” .

“It’s not far,” Spencer assures her. “Give me your number. I’ll text you when I get in.”

“Tonight was - unexpected,” Paige says, as she types her number into Spencer’s phone.

Spencer gives her a half-smile and a quick kiss goodnight, then heads off in the direction of her apartment.

She dials a number from memory, expecting to get voicemail.

“Spencer?” Dr. Sullivan picks up on the third ring. “How are you?”

Spencer feels a few years worth of tears building up in the back of her throat. 

“I’m not exactly sure.”

The truth is messy, but she has to start somewhere. 

There’s no such thing as a little lie.


End file.
